


John Watson And The Seven Police Officers

by flawedamythyst



Series: Fairytales [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, fairytale AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is forced to run away into the woods when the evil Colonel Moran becomes jealous of his shooting ability. He finds a new life with seven police officers, meets a handsome stranger with skin as white as snow, hair as black as ebony and lips as red as blood, and learns to just ignore the way the forest animals won't leave him alone. However, the evil of Moran, and his friend the wizard Moriarty, continue to threaten his life.</p><p>Snow White AU. Yes, I know, we've been on hiatus too long.</p><p>Thanks to Victorix and H_E_Sarah for betaing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Watson And The Seven Police Officers

There was once a wicked colonel called Sebastian Moran, who was the best shot in all the land. He was so proud of being the best shot that he held tournaments just so he could beat everyone else.

One day after he had been practising at the shooting range, showing off and revelling in the awe of the new recruits, he turned to the sergeant who worked there, and who had watched every man in the Army shoot at one time or another.

“Has there ever been a better shot than me?” he asked, completely expecting the answer to be 'no', followed by praise of his skill.

Instead, the sergeant said, “As a matter of fact, there was a Captain in the other day who broke all your records.”

Colonel Moran was instantly furious, and his fingers tightened on his gun. “Who?” he demanded.

“Captain John Watson,” said the sergeant. “Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“But he's not even a real soldier,” said Moran. “He's a doctor!”

The sergeant shrugged. “He's a better shot than you.”

Moran stomped back to his quarters in the army camp, where he found his best friend, Moriarty, hanging out. Moriarty was a sorcerer who was even more evil than Moran was. He lived in the town next to the army camp, where he was widely feared and so exercised a great deal of power.

“It shouldn't be allowed,” Moran raged after he'd told Moriarty what the sergeant had said. “I'm the best shot – everyone knows I'm the best shot!”

Moriarty shrugged one shoulder. “Only one thing to do, my dear Seb,” he said. “You'll have to kill this Watson.”

Moran was tempted, but reluctantly shook his head. “I can't kill him. I'll get arrested.”

“Oh, don't worry about that,” said Moriarty. “I know some men who'll do it for us. I'll fix it for you.”

Moriarty specialised in helping people who wanted to commit a crime but who didn't know how to do it without being caught. He had several men in his employ who would kill someone without asking any questions, as long as the price was right.

The next day, he sent two of them to Captain Watson with a forged order telling him to go with them on a secret mission into the woods.

“Once you've got him alone,” he told them, “kill him. And then bring back his heart for Sebby – it's his birthday soon, and it'll be a much better present than yet another grenade launcher.”

Captain Watson didn't question the order at all, because he was a loyal soldier, but he did think it was a bit odd that a doctor who was essentially a GP in a uniform would be sent on a top secret mission into the middle of nowhere. He made sure he had his gun, and that it was fully loaded. Just because he wasn't really meant to use it didn't mean that he shouldn't be prepared in case he had to.

He kept a close eye on the two criminals, and so when they turned on him in the middle of the woods, he wasn't taken by surprise. He threw himself down, ducking their shots, and then tackle the nearest one of them to the ground, putting his shoulder into it as if he was on the Rugby field. He pulled his gun out as he fell and managed to shoot the other criminal without needing more than a split-second to aim.

He pointed his gun at the criminal he had got on the ground.

“Don't shoot!” pleaded the criminal. “Please! I only kill people because I need the money to look after my poor, sick granny!”

Captain Watson let out a sigh. He was a kind-hearted man, and he didn't think he could shoot a man who was begging him for mercy. Particularly not one with a poor, sick granny.

“Besides,” added the criminal. “If you kill me as well as him, and then go back to the army camp, they'll only send someone else to try again. If you let me go, I'll go back and tell them I killed you.”

“Who?” asked Captain Watson. “Who wants to kill me? I'm no one important.”

The criminal didn't want to tell him, because he knew that if Moran or Moriarty found out that he'd talked, he would die in horrible agony. Captain Watson was holding a gun on him right there and then, though, and he looked more than willing to use it, so in the end the criminal spilled all about Colonel Moran's desire to be the best shot in the land, and how that had ended with Captain Watson being taken for a walk by two murderers.

The criminal didn't mention Moriarty, though, because he knew enough about his dealings to prefer a clean death to whatever Moriarty would concoct if he found out the criminal had blabbed about him.

“That's got to be the stupidest reason to kill someone I've ever heard,” said Captain Watson, then he stood back and gestured at the criminal with his gun. “Okay, you can go. Just don't mention a word about this to anyone, okay?”

“Of course not,” said the criminal. He glanced at the dead body of the other criminal. “Um, can you help me cut his heart out? I'm meant to be taking yours back with me.”

Captain Watson looked at the dead body and made a face, but pulled out a scalpel (he liked to keep one on him in case he needed to do unexpected emergency surgery. He never did, because most of the time he was just treating athlete's foot and venereal diseases, but he could still hope that something more exciting than being a glorified G.P. would one day happen to him) and did some impromptu post-mortem thoracic surgery.

“Uh, thanks,” said the criminal, taking the heart gingerly and wondering if this job really was worth being able to afford the care home for his poor, dear granny. “Look, you are going to disappear, right? If you get seen, and they find out I'm lying, they'll kill me.”

Captain Watson hadn't really thought that far ahead. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I'll just-” he looked around the woods, then gestured off in the opposite direction to the army camp. “I'll just head in that direction.”

“Great,” said the criminal. He waved the bloody heart in farewell, then headed back to Moran and Moriarty, wondering if maybe it was time for a change of career.

John Watson, no longer in the army and so no longer a Captain, set off in the other direction with a heavy steps, wondering what was to become of him now. He didn't even have his favourite jumper with him.

Many hours passed, and John began to worry that there wasn't anything in this wood except trees, and that he was going to have to live with the birds and animals who kept appearing to watch his progress through their home.

One of them, a hedgehog called Mike who was young enough to have never seen a human before, was so excited to see John that he fell off the tree stump he had climbed in order to get the best view.

“Careful, little chap,” said John as he picked him up, carefully inspecting him for injuries. When he didn't find any, he set him back down on the tree stump and continued on his way. Mike watched him go with wide, hero-worshipping eyes.

After another five minutes, John finally came across a building. It was not the small cottage he had been imagining, or even the wayside inn he had been hoping for. It was a police station.

He looked at it for a long moment. “Right,” he said to himself, then went to knock on the door.

“Hang on!” came a call from inside, then the door was flung open to reveal seven police officers.

“How can we help?” asked the youngest, most eager-looking one. “Got any unsolved crimes?”

“Ah, no. I'm a bit lost,” said John.

Their faces fell. 

“Not our division,” said the oldest one, who had grey hair. “This is violent crimes.”

John looked at the building, then around at the surrounding woods. 

“Right,” he said slowly. “Where are the other divisions, then?”

There was an awkward pause, then the oldest policeman sighed. “They're all still back in town,” he said. “There was an evil sorcerer running a sort of criminal network, and we solved too many of his crimes, so he did a spell that banished us here.”

“Oh, right,” said John. “I'm sort of banished as well. Could I stay?”

“No civilians allowed in the station,” snapped one of the two women.

John opened his mouth to say that he wasn't a civilian, he was in the Army, and then shut it again when he realised he wasn't any more. 

“Oh, come on,” he said. “I can help with, um, the cooking and cleaning and things.”

“We do allow cleaning staff in,” said the shortest policeman slowly.

“I'll do that, then,” said John. “And I'll make you all tea. I make really good tea.”

The policemen exchanged looks, then all nodded.

“Come in,” said the oldest one, holding the door open. “I'm Lestrade.”

“Dimmock.”

“Donovan.”

“Hopkins.”

“Toby.”

“Anderson.”

John wasn't sure he was going to remember all those names, but he nodded as if he would, then looked at the shy-looking woman who was the only who hadn't spoken yet.

“And, uh, I'm Molly. Molly Hooper,” she said, then shuffled her feet. “I'm not actually a policeman – I was just dropping off some paperwork when the station was banished.”

“You're part of the team anyway,” said Lestrade. “Wouldn't get far without those autopsy reports, would we?” 

Molly blushed and looked at the floor.

“I'm John,” said John, stepping inside. “Now, which way are the tea things?”

 

John settled into a routine with the police officers rather quickly. He cooked breakfast for them each morning, then waved them all off as they left in search of crimes. While they were gone, he cleaned the station, trying to keep the wild animals from 'helping' too much because they just made things worse – most of them didn't understand the importance of going outside before going to the toilet. He then cooked dinner for when the officers got back. Usually they returned with long faces, having been unable to find anything to investigate, although one day they did come back bustling with importance because they had solved the murder of a rabbit and arrested a fox. They spent that evening filling in a great deal of paperwork.

One day, after John had been at the police station for a few weeks, a stranger turned up in the middle of the day while he was sweeping the front steps and trying to ignore the flock of birds staring at him from the nearest trees.

“Who are you?” demanded the stranger rudely. He had hair as black as ebony, lips as red as blood, and skin as white as snow.

“I'm John,” said John. “Are you okay? You look awfully pale.”

“I'm fine. This is my natural skin tone,” said the man. He looked John over with an intent look that made heat rise up John's spine and prickle at the back of his neck. “Your skin tone shows that you're an exiled Army doctor.”

John blinked and glanced down at his arms. “How the... are you a wizard?”

The man made a disgusted face. “I don't need to cheat by using magic,” he said. He held out a hand. “The name's Sherlock Holmes. I'm a Consulting Detective.”

John shook his hand, wondering what the hell a consulting detective was. “Are you looking for the police officers?” he asked. “They should be back in an hour or so. I could make you tea while you wait?”

Sherlock accepted his offer and they went inside to have tea together. John made sure to shut the door before the squirrels who had been creeping closer and closer to him while he talked to Sherlock could rush in and do something embarrassing, like sit on his lap.

Sherlock told him all about being a consulting detective while they waited. It sounded like a lot of fun, and made John realise just how bored with cooking and cleaning he was, and how much he missed the excitement and occasional violence of being in the Army, even as a non-combatant. Well, he'd had bad days.

When the police came back, Lestrade took one look at Sherlock and groaned. “Oh god, Sherlock, what now? I told you, we don't have any murders for you to solve.”

“None at all?” asked Sherlock with a frown. “What about a kidnapping? A series of cunning thefts? A particularly nasty mugging?”

“Nothing,” said Lestrade firmly.

“Well,” said Molly quietly. “There was the case of the missing eggs.”

Lestrade turned to glare at her as Sherlock perked up. 

“Missing eggs, Bashful?” he asked. “Fabergé eggs? What are the clues?”

“Chicken's eggs,” said Hopkins, bouncing with excitement. “We found footprints at the scene of the crime!”

“Pawprints,” corrected Anderson. “We found pawprints.”

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. “Pawprints roughly the size of a fox's?”

“Yes!” said Hopkins. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” said Sherlock, turning to look at John with an expression of despair. “How can you be around such stupidity and not go insane, Doc?”

John blinked. “Doc?” he repeated.

Sherlock flapped one hand dismissively. “I can't afford to waste any brain space on remembering names,” he said.

“If it helps,” said Lestrade, “'Doc' is a lot better than anyone else's nickname. Poor Dimmock was having bad hay fever the first time Sherlock met him, and has been Sneezy ever since.”

“Every time he sneezed, it broke my concentration completely,” said Sherlock, as if that was the worst crime he could imagine. “It took me nearly four minutes longer than it should have to solve that murder.”

“Right,” said John. “I take it you were banished for solving too many of the sorcerer's crimes as well?”

“Oh no,” said Anderson with malicious glee. “He was already out here long before that.”

“It was an over-reaction,” said Sherlock, scowling.

“He decided to announce that the Mayor was having an affair with a frog, in front of an entire roomful of people that included his wife,” said Lestrade.

“A frog?” repeated John.

“She hadn't always been a frog,” said Sherlock. “There was an enchantment involved.”

“Yeah, but it wasn't magic you were high on at the time, was it?” asked Donovan.

Sherlock glared at her. “What does that matter, Grumpy?” he asked. “I'm clean now.”

“Wait,” said John. “You were-”

Sherlock turned his glare on him. “I'm clean now,” he repeated louder.

Sherlock left not long after that, leaving John and the seven police officers to have dinner. He refused to join them, claiming that spending too much time with that much stupidity would be bad for his health.

The next day, he came back to the police station while the police officers were out.

“Come for a walk with me,” he demanded.

“Ah, it's not really convenient,” said John, who was up a ladder trying to clear the gutters.

“Come anyway,” said Sherlock. “It might be dangerous,” he added, as if that were an incentive.

John shooed away the sparrow who was trying to land on his head. “Dangerous?” he asked sceptically.

Sherlock shrugged. “There might be bears or something.”

That wasn't entirely convincing, but John came down from his ladder anyway. The gutters could wait.

There weren't any bears but there were deer, who came up and nuzzled John's hands affectionately. John barely noticed because he was so caught up in the stories Sherlock told him of crimes he had solved in the past. He found himself exclaiming over Sherlock's brilliance more often than he probably should, but the pleased smile Sherlock gave him every time he did was more than worth it.

Sherlock came back every day after that, taking John off on long rambles that did little to hide just how intensely boring he found the woods. One day, they found a dead badger and John got to see him actually involved in solving a case. It took his breath away.

When Sherlock had finished laying out all his deductions, which concluded that the badger had died after eating poisoned berries, John could do little more than gape at him.

“Amazing,” he breathed. “Just...amazing.”

Sherlock tried to look as if he weren't thrilled by that response. “Elementary, my dear Doc,” he said. “If we were in the city, I would be able to show you some proper deductions.”

On their walk back to the police station, Sherlock reached out and took John's hand. When John glanced at him, Sherlock was staring hard at a tree in front of them with a fixed expression on his face. John just squeezed his fingers and smiled to himself.

Two days later, Sherlock arrived at the police station a lot earlier than he usually did. The police officers were still finishing their breakfast and John was desperately trying to keep up with the demand for bacon.

“There is a village over that way,” he said to John. “It's about two hours' walk. They're having a summer fair today. I thought you might like to go with me.”

He was using his most imperious voice, but John wasn't fooled. He was extremely nervous underneath that façade.

“Oh god,” said Anderson. “Is he asking you out on a _date_?”

“You're lowering the I.Q. of the whole forest, Dopey,” snapped Sherlock, but the tips of his ears had gone faintly pink.

John grinned at him. “I'd love to,” he said. He looked around at the mess of breakfast dishes. “I just have to clear this up first.”

Sherlock scowled.

“Oh, don't worry about that,” said Molly. “You go on – I'll clear up.”

John thanked her, then went to get his coat. At the last moment, thinking about what Sherlock had said about bears, he also slipped his gun into his pocket.

It was a lovely day out. The sun shone and the fair had jam tarts, morris dancers, and a stall selling some really lovely woollen jumpers that John probably bought too many of. Sherlock was in an extremely good mood and even let John buy them both a glass of sparkling wine.

The other thing the fair had was a shooting competition. “You should enter,” said Sherlock.

John tore his gaze away from the sign-up sheet. “What makes you think I can shoot?” he asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Apart from the well-maintained state of your gun, the calluses on your hands, and the fact that you were in the Army?” he asked. “It's obvious that you want to enter – your facial expressions are extremely easy to read.”

John laughed. “Yeah, okay,” he said. He looked at the sheet again. “I shouldn't.”

“First prize includes a kiss from the Queen of the Fair,” remarked Sherlock in a neutral voice.

“Not sure that's the person here I'd want a kiss from,” said John, looking at Sherlock's ruby-red lips.

Sherlock suppressed a small smile. “Well, who knows who else will want to kiss you if you win?” he said.

John signed his name onto the sheet without another thought.

With Sherlock watching, he was unable to stop himself showing off, and he won the competition easily. After he'd been given a giggling peck by the Queen of the Fair, he turned and gave Sherlock a smug grin. Sherlock pulled him into his arms and gave him a long, passionate kiss that wiped all other thought from John's head. Overhead, he could dimly hear bluebirds singing with joy.

“I should win things more often,” he managed when Sherlock finally let him go. Sherlock just grinned.

They walked back through the woods hand-in-hand, blissfully unaware of anything outside the two of them.

 

However, not all was well elsewhere in the world. One of Moriarty's men had been at the fair, and he took word back to the town next to the Army camp of a mysterious stranger who was an excellent shot. When Moran heard that this stranger had given his name as John, he was furious. He sent for the man who had been sent to kill John, only to find that the man had fled the kingdom, taking his poor, sick granny with him.

“I want Captain Watson dead!” he raged to Moriarty. “I want his bones twisted and his blood spilling out onto the ground! I want to reduce him to such tiny pieces that no one would even know he'd once been a person!”

“Oh, that sounds like fun,” said Moriarty, clapping his hands. “I'll cast a spell to find where he's been hiding, and then we can go and do just that.”

He cast the spell in a cauldron of water, and it revealed an image of Sherlock and John having a cup of tea together, sitting on a log in the clearing outside the police station. There were several mice and a hedgehog on the log beside John, clearly hoping for his attention, but John only had eyes for Sherlock.

Moriarty's eyes narrowed. “I know that man,” he said. “I once swore I'd burn the heart out of him. “

“I remember that,” said Moran. “It looks like he's finally found one.”

“We can kill two birds with one stone,” said Moriarty. “In fact...” He rummaged through his things and came up with a bullet, which he gave to Moran. “This is a magic bullet,” he said. “No matter where it hits Captain Watson, it will kill him, even if it's just a graze.”

Moran scowled. 

“When I shoot at someone, they get more than a graze,” he said, but took the bullet anyway.

They left the army town the next day, riding on black horses into the woods to where the police station was. As they rode, Moriarty sang a nasty little song about what they were going to do.

“Well, you can tell by the way he rides his horse, Seb's gonna kill John Watson, painfully of course. Screaming loud and dying slow, Watson's gonna wish for a lethal blow.Ah, ah, ah, killing John Watson,” he sang. “Ah, ah, ah, ah, killing Watson, killing Watson.”

Moriarty had many skills, but lyric-writing was not one of them. However, it was enough to make Mike the hedgehog immediately realise that John was in danger when he heard it.

 _Oh no!_ he thought. _I must warn him!_

He went and found his friend Nigel, who was the fastest deer in the forest, and asked him for a lift to the police station.

“We must go faster than those men on their big, black horses,” he said.

Nigel tossed his head arrogantly. “Not a problem,” he said. “Climb on my back.”

Nigel was right to be so arrogant. They overtook Moriarty and Moran easily, and soon found themselves at the police station, where John was washing the windows. It was a hot day, and he'd taken his shirt off, and Sherlock was watching the muscles of his back with appreciation, wondering if John could be persuaded to abandon the windows in favour of something rather more fun. John had been hoping for just that reaction when he'd taken his shirt off, and was waiting with anticipation for Sherlock to make a move when Nigel and Mike arrived in the clearing.

“Bad men are coming!” announced Mike loudly. “They want to kill you!”

Unfortunately, what was loud to a hedgehog was far too quiet to break through the lust-haze that both John and Sherlock were lost in, and even if it had been louder, neither of them spoke Hedgehog.

“Bugger,” said Mike.

“We'll help!” called some of the sparrows who had been watching John from a near-by tree. They flew down and perched on John's shoulders, pecking at his hair to get his attention.

“Bloody hell!” swore John. “Get off!”

“Danger! Danger! Danger!” sang the sparrows, but unfortunately, John and Sherlock didn't speak Sparrow either.

Sherlock stepped forward to help John wave the birds away, then they both went inside the police station to hide from the animals.

“Hang on,” said a near-by robin. “I know a parrot who speaks Human. He'll be able to explain to them.”

“Go and get him!” said Mike. “We don't have long before the bad men arrive!”

The robin flew off immediately.

Inside the station, John and Sherlock decided to take advantage of having been forced indoors. They went up to the attic that John had made his bedroom and started to remove each other's clothes. By the time the robin came back with his friend the parrot, they were naked together in bed and far too preoccupied to notice the birds tapping at the window.

“They're worse than rabbits,” said Mike with a sigh.

“Hey!” said a near-by rabbit. “Don't stereotype – we're not all sex-mad, you know. I'm asexual.”

Inside the room, John and Sherlock took quite a while to finish what they were doing. Afterwards, they lay together for a few quiet moments, then Sherlock cleared his throat. 

“John, I have something to ask you,” he said, then corrected himself. “No, that's the wrong order. I have something to tell you, and then something to ask you.”

There was a loud shriek from outside. The parrot had arrived and been caught up on the situation by the other animals.

“Danger! Danger! Danger!” he shrieked. “Danger, John Watson!”

“What the bloody hell?” asked John, sitting up and looking out the window. “Jesus fuck!” he swore when he saw the crowd of animals who were staring back at him. “Have they been watching this whole time?!”

“Danger!” shrieked the parrot again. “Bad men are coming to kill you!”

“What?” repeated John, then grabbed for his clothes.

“You're not seriously going to trust the word of a parrot?” asked Sherlock, put out that he had been interrupted.

“Bad men on horses!” said the parrot. “With guns!”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” said John as he pulled on his trousers.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “Part of you has been expecting this,” he said. “John, why exactly were you exiled from the Army camp?”

“I wasn't,” said John, pulling on his jumper. “Someone was trying to kill me, so I pretended to be dead.”

“What?!” said Sherlock.

John shook his head. “No time to explain.” He tucked his gun into his waistband. “I have to go.”

“I'm going with you,” said Sherlock, leaping out of bed and starting to pull his own clothes on.

“No,” said John. “It's too dangerous. Just-”

“As if I care about danger,” interrupted Sherlock. “I'm not going to let you get hurt if I can help it.”

John gave him a beaming smile. “Thank you.”

Sherlock looked awkward for a moment. “Of course,” he said, then glanced at the window. “Come on, we'll go out the back way.”

Moriarty and Moran arrived in the clearing at the front of the police station just as John and Sherlock climbed out of the back window and ran into the woods. They dismounted, then burst through the front door.

“He's not here,” said Moran with disappointment, after a brief search of the station.

“Don't worry, darling,” said Moriarty, looking down at the bedsheets where evidence of John and Sherlock's recent activities was still drying. “He won't escape us that easily.”

He cast a spell that lit up the path John and Sherlock had taken, and Moran gave him a beaming grin. “I love it when you do that.”

“I know,” said Moriarty.

They chased after John and Sherlock, watched by the animals.

“We can't let them catch them,” said Mike. “Come on, if we attack them, we'll slow them down and maybe John will escape!”

He started off after Moran and Moriarty, then paused when he realised that none of the other animals had moved.

“Are you insane?” said Nigel. “That's a soldier and a wizard – men with guns and magic! What exactly could a group of woodland creatures do to them other than get slaughtered?”

“He has a point,” said the asexual rabbit, whose name was Pat. “I like John, but I'm not really interested in being blown apart for him.”

Mike let out a long sigh, then looked after where John and Sherlock were being hunted by Moran and Moriarty. “I guess we'll just have to hope for the best, then.”

Sherlock led John through the woods without any hesitation, heading for some near-by cliffs which were riddled with caves. He was the only person who had thoroughly explored them all, and he was confident that he and John could hide there for quite some time.

However, Moran and Moriarty moved faster than he was counting on and caught up with him and John while they were still at the top of the cliff, running along to get to the path that led down to the caves.

“Quarry in sight!” shouted Moran, who was finding the chase very exciting.

John glanced over his shoulder at the shout. The moment he saw Moran, he spun round, pulling his gun out as he did so in order to shoot. 

Moran's gun was already in his hand though, and he only had to bring it up to squeeze off a shot.

John was still in motion though, so Moran didn't hit his heart as he had been hoping for. Instead, the bullet glanced off John's shoulder, knocking him backwards but not preventing him from firing his own shot a moment later.

John's aim was better and his shot hit Moran straight between the eyes, killing him instantly.

“Ooh, you little fucker!” said Moriarty, bringing his hands up to cast a spell.

“No!” shouted Sherlock, and he launched himself at Moriarty, tumbling them both over the cliff.

“Sherlock!” choked John, but before he could run to where Sherlock had disappeared, and incredible weakness came over him, and he fell to his knees. The bullet Moran had shot him with had been the magic bullet that Moriarty had made, the one that only needed a flesh wound to kill. It sucked the life force out of John within seconds, leaving him collapsed on the grass.

The particular part of the cliff that Sherlock and Moriarty had fallen off was above a deep lake. They plunged into the water still clinging to each other, and the shock of the cold water was almost enough to distract them from their struggle. Despite having the air knocked from his lungs, though, Sherlock was very aware that he needed to prevent Moriarty from casting a spell and finishing the fight. The best way to do that would be to kill him, he thought, and grabbed for Moriarty's neck, closing his hands over his throat and squeezing as tightly as he could.

Several long minutes of struggle in the water followed, until Moriarty was limp in Sherlock's grasp. Even then he held on, determined to end the threat to John's life. Of course, he didn't know that the magic bullet had already stopped John's heart.

Sherlock cast aside Moriarty's body once he was sure he was dead and swam to the edge of the lake. He pulled himself out, then started the climb back up to John.

 

Meanwhile, the seven police officers had arrived back at the police station to find Moran and Moriarty's horses in the clearing.

“Oh!” exclaimed Molly with delight. “I've always wanted a pony!” She reached out to pet Moran's enormous, battle-trained stallion, and it snapped at her. She let out a little cry and leapt backwards into Lestrade, who steadied her and then took the opportunity not to let go.

“Something's gone on here,” he said, frowning at the horses and the many different animal footprints and droppings.

“The back window is open,” called Donovan, who had gone inside the station to investigate. “John's gone, and his bed is...oh good god, that's disgusting.”

Toby, who was an excellent tracker, found the trail that Moran and Moriarty had made as they followed after John and Sherlock. 

“This way!” he called, and all seven police officers set off through the woods.

When they got to the top of the cliff, they were met with a terrible sight. Sherlock had made it to the top of the cliff and found John's body, and was slumped on the ground with it cradled in his arms.

“Oh no,” whispered Molly.

Sherlock looked up. “Bashful,” he said. “You're a doctor. You have to do something.”

Molly gulped. It had been a very, very long time since she'd treated a living patient. Still, she fell to her knees beside John. It didn't take much for her to realise that John now fell into her usual jurisdiction. 

“I'm so sorry, Sherlock,” she said. “He's dead.”

Sherlock's lips tightened until they were white.

“Come on, lads,” said Lestrade. “Let's get him back to the station.”

They carried him back on their shoulders and laid him on the bench outside the station. All the animals who had seen them passing by came out of hiding in order to pay their last respects, including Mike the hedgehog, who couldn't hold in his tears. The police officers were a little disconcerted by the sudden gathering of woodland creatures, but Sherlock didn't even seem to notice. He stroked his hand through John's hair as if they were the only ones there.

“John,” he said in a quiet voice. “John, you have to wake up. I need you.” Despite the crowd of police officers and animals watching, he couldn't stop himself from bending to press a kiss against John's cold lips; their last kiss.

Now, if you know anything about magic, you'll know that no matter how evil a sorcerer, or how strong their spell, there is always one thing that can break it. That thing is true love's kiss. As Sherlock's lips touched John's, the dark magic of Moriarty's bullet was instantly vanquished by the love between them. John's heart restarted with a thump, and he sucked in a gasping breath.

Sherlock fell backwards with surprise, then crowded back in to grip John's shoulders. “John,” he said. “John, come on.”

John's eyes flickered open. “So you do know my name,” he said in a croak.

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “I could never forget a single thing about you.”

“Oh good,” said John, then he reached out to cup a hand around Sherlock's neck and pull him back down into a kiss.

“Oh, it's so romantic,” said Molly. She sounded more than a little wistful, and Lestrade was riding the emotional high of the moment, so he thought, _fuck it_ , and swept her into a long, passionate kiss that she was more than happy to respond to.

Anderson caught Donovan's eye and raised an eyebrow.

“Don't even think about it,” she said, stepping away from him and nearly into Dimmock and Hopkins, who were also snogging.

“Jesus Christ,” she said. “When did everyone start behaving like bloody rabbits?”

Pat the asexual rabbit, who was sitting near-by, fixed her with a malicious glare, then turned to hop off. If no one was dead, she was going to get out of there before the foxes on the other side of the clearing realised just how easy it would be to get their next meal.

When Sherlock eventually pulled away from John, he had to hold John back from kissing him again to get his words out. 

“John, John, wait,” he said. “There's something I need to tell you.”

“What?” asked John, who really just wanted to get Sherlock back up to his attic room. Who knew being dead could make you so horny?

“I wasn't originally from the army town,” said Sherlock. “I'm from London.”

London was the capital city of the neighbouring kingdom, which was far larger and wealthier than the one they were in.

“Okay,” said John. “And?”

“And my full title is His Royal Highness The Prince Sherlock Sherrinford Sigerson, Duke Of London, Viscount Sussex, Royal Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Violin, Aide-de-Camp to His Majesty,” said Sherlock.

Molly pulled away from Lestrade long enough to give a gasp of shock.

“What?” asked John.

“I left London because my mother and my brother – King Mycroft - were determined that I should get married, and kept throwing the most awful, bland princesses at me,” said Sherlock. “All of whom needed rescuing. God, it was awful, John, they wouldn't leave me alone. I miss London, though – there's always something happening there, always a murder or a kidnapping or some other exciting crime. I want to go back.”

“You're leaving?” asked John. His stomach plummeted.

“No,” said Sherlock. “Well, yes. I mean – that depends on you. I want you to come back with me. I want-” He paused and took a deep breath. “John, will you marry me?”

John could barely speak. “Oh,” he breathed out. “I- yes. Yes, of course, Sherlock, of course I will.”

Sherlock beamed at him, and then kissed him again.

Sherlock and John were married as soon as they got to London, despite the objections of King Mycroft, who thought they should be having a grand state wedding. They settled down in a cosy flat together and Sherlock set himself up as a Consulting Detective. John was forced to save his life several times a month, but they both loved every minute.

Lestrade and Molly moved to London with them, but the other police officers went back to the army town in order to put right the mess that Moriarty had made of it.

And they all lived happily ever after.


End file.
